Chapter Text
It was, by all accounts, a very shitty day.
Her boss, in his ever sexist and boorish ways, had Veronica working over-time to try and rewrite nearly the entire paper in order to get it past the editorial board. Without pay. And without any credit.
Veronica fumed during the whole ordeal, mumbling to herself to try and keep it together for just a few more hours and then she could go home to the alcohol waiting in her fridge. Truthfully, she just wanted to laugh in his face and walk out, but it had taken her years to get this far and she wasn't about to risk throwing it all away because of another piece of shit man thinking he knew better than she did.
The last three thought the same too, and where were they? Still in their tiny, shitty, offices in tiny shitty places reporting on tiny shitty stories. Not like her, with her fancy title of junior editor and her less than fancy apartment only a quick drive away from the heart of Boston and her exhaustion from working far too much for way too little.
Thinking about it led her to groan to herself as she tried to avoid a rather large puddle of water, lest she ruin her shoes any further -- like it'd help any. She left without her umbrella and was hoping to have been home before the rainstorm started, a fact she was absolutely kicking herself for now as she walked on aching feet in soaking wet clothes.
Motherfucking piece of shit...
She tried to find the positives, something her dad had always tried to do when things went wrong. He used to tell her to list at least three good things to remember when the goings got rough. She should call her parents soon. It had been a while since she last spoke to them.
There was her first positive: her relationship with her parents was still as great as it had been when she was a kid. They were understanding and sweet, always making sure to call her on the holidays and her birthday or insisting that the next time she come visit they pay for her plane ticket. Her dad had every piece of news she had a hand in creating displayed proudly on a corkboard in his office. Her mom had recently started mailing her postcards from the grocery store in Sherwood, 'little pieces of home' she called it. Not that Veronica really wanted to be reminded of Ohio, but she kept the cards for sentimentality towards her mother.
Second positive: she was out of Sherwood. Veronica left as soon as she could -- too soon her parents and friends said. Her junior year was a nightmare she was all too happy to escape from. All of it was one bad memory: smoke and parties, croquette and lipstick, forged notes and slushies. She pushed herself to graduate early, ignoring the fact that maybe she needed time to process everything that had happened and instead throwing herself directly into school work and college essays. The few times she had returned to Sherwood she hadn't left her parent's house. Veronica refused to go anywhere, not the high school and its new football field, not the Snappy Snack Shack, not to the lunches at someone's house she kept getting invites for. Even thinking about it now, Veronica felt her hands trembling and heart hammering at the thought of high school and the hell it had been.
Most people would agree with her and insist that their high school experience was far worse than anyone elses. She'd only laugh and fight to urge to tell them that unless they watched their boyfriend kill three people and blow up in front of them, they didn't know shit. Well, killed two and put one in the ICU.
The door to her apartment building opened with a loud creak and she immediately kicked off her shoes, taking them in hand and not caring about the water she was dripping as she made her way down the hall towards the elevator room.
She really just wanted to take a shot of whatever she touched first and fall into bed to sleep for eight years, but if she had learned anything about living in this apartment building it's that you had a fat chance of getting a good night's sleep. The building was just close enough to Harvard that the streets were always filled with honking cars and drunk students being rowdy at all hours. And even when she could drown that out, there wasn't much she could do to help the noise of her neighbors. They had moved in only a couple of months ago and at first Veronica had intentions of introducing herself to them. But after the shouting match that took place on their second night moved in she decided against it.
The man who lived there -- she wasn't sure if he was husband or boyfriend -- seemed to work a similar schedule to her and was usually her only company as she left for work and came home. He was always well dressed and polite, if not a bit snippy, and he definitely seemed shifty after Veronica caught him whispering into the payphone in the laundry room late at night once.
The woman was never seen. If it weren't for the fact that Veronica could hear her shrill screams and yells through the thin walls, she wouldn't even know she was there. The woman either didn't leave the apartment or left at odder hours than what was usual for working folks in the city.
It had become routine for Veronica to settle into bed and countdown until their voices began raising far past hushed tones, their words muffled enough to be unintelligible but the intent all too clear.
Sighing to herself and debating if she should get hammered enough to sleep through it, Veronica turned the corner to see the one working elevator light up with a ding. Maybe her luck for the night was turning around. Third positive: she was home and only good things can happen when you're home.
Moving forward she quickly realized that no, her luck was not turning around and bad things can still happen, as the doors slowly began closing. She hobbled forward and tried to desperately reach it in time. Losing hope fast and praying it may be occupied -- and that whoever was in there was merciful -- she plead, "Wait! Please, wait!"
Just before the doors could finish closing, a heeled shoe kicked out to stop it and Veronica felt like crying from relief. Throwing herself into the elevator and releasing a long exhale, Veronica started to reach for the button to her floor before realizing it was already pressed. Relaxing against the back wall, she turned her gaze to the woman kind enough to let her in and said, "Thanks."
Veronica nearly swallowed her tongue as she stared at the woman, unsure if her eyes were playing tricks on her or if this was God's idea of a cruel joke.
Standing beside her, wearing a black skirt, charcoal grey petticoat and high heels, holding a still dripping umbrella in one hand and a thick stack of papers in the other, with strawberry blonde hair pulled back away from her face by a black scrunchie, was Heather Chandler.
Openly gaping and trying to remember how to breathe, Veronica could only see images that would haunt her dreams all rushing to her at once. An innocent little white cup and lid, dark eyes and a playful smile, a bottle of blue drain cleaner and a red scrunchie, the sounds of choking and glass shattering, the still body of her best friend and worst enemy with a forged suicide note beside it. It made her hands shake and heart stop, a bit of air finally making its way through her clenched teeth as she let herself practically be held up by the elevator wall.
It all happened within the span of only a few seconds -- and none of it was seen by Heather, who continued reading through the papers in her hand and replied apathetically without looking up. "Yeah."
The elevator doors shut, locking them in together.
Veronica knew she shouldn't be staring, especially with the crazed look she was sure was on her face, but she just couldn't help it. It had been over a decade since she had seen Heather Chandler.
People called it a miracle that she survived. The public was led to believe the teenage girl had actually died for months before news broke that she had actually survived. During those months she had been placed in a medically induced coma while she recovered, something about new and untested treatment methods had kept it all under wraps until it was proven to be successful. When Veronica's mother tearfully told her the news, Veronica nearly had a nervous breakdown. If Heather woke up and started talking it was all over for her. She had finally stopped having nightmares about JD waving his gun and then promptly exploding and now she had a whole new set of nightmares involving a dead girl walking.
Heather McNamara had cried all throughout their next movie night, happy that her friend was still alive while also grieving their apparent mutual demons that would drive them to such extremes.
"I just wish I would have talked to her more." She sobbed into Martha's arms, "Maybe then she wouldn't have... have..."
Heather Duke seemed mostly unaffected, only sniffing dismissively anytime someone brought it up.
"Who cares? Let her try and come back thinking she's hot shit. She did it to herself and it's not my problem that she's such a loser that she couldn't even kill herself."
Veronica waited in terror for months for the demon queen to return to school, but she never did. Rumors would spread that she'd be back the next week, then the next week, then the next and so on, but she never did. Not even the teachers knew what to think about the situation, waiting in just as much suspense as the students for the girl to come back.
But she never did.
Heather Chandler never came back, and she never publicly said a word.
Veronica graduated and left Sherwood without seeing a single hair on Heather Chandler's head, and she was half convinced the same could be said for everyone else too. As far as anyone knew, Heather Chandler had dropped off the face of the earth -- alive according to all sources, but gone.
But here she was, nearly ten years older and looking the same as ever. Truly, she hadn't seemed to have aged a day. Her face looked a little thinner, sure, and her eyes seemed more tired, but she still wore that expression of complete and utter bitch that Veronica couldn't help but smile at. Her brow furrowed and her lips in a pout, clearly displeased with whatever she was reading. She huffed to herself and shook her head slightly, the motion moving a few strands of her neatly curled hair over her shoulder.
Could Veronica even be sure that this was Heather? She was exhausted and had the bad memories of Sherwood on her mind already, this was probably just a trick of the mind. There was no way, in heaven or hell, that they could have ended up in the same shitty elevator of the same shitty apartment in Boston. The real Heather Chandler was probably tanning somewhere in Europe with a bunch of hot pool boys in skimpy swimwear, or sitting behind a large mahogany desk with a cigar in her mouth and briefcases full of dirty money around her, or off stomping a village somewhere. Nope, this couldn't be her.
Curious now, Veronica strained her neck to try and catch a glimpse at the papers in her hand, hoping there would be a name somewhere on it.
Jessica, maybe. She looked like she could be a Jessica.
The moment she leaned just a little too far her slick feet went out from underneath her and she found herself suddenly falling. Veronica's chin hit Maybe-Jessica-Maybe-Heather's arm and the force was enough to send the blonde straight to the ground too, landing hard on her ass with a startled noise. Papers rained around them as they both sat stunned on the wet floor of the elevator, Veronica wanting to just close her eyes and accept death. She used to think death by Heather Chandler's hand was a fate she escaped after turning eighteen and yet here she was, twenty-seven and unwillingly thrown back at the feet of Satan herself.
But hey, maybe her guess before was right and this was Jessica -- a lovely accountant with no relation to the demon queen.
"Fuck me gently with a chainsaw."
Heather -- yep, definitely Heather -- murmured to herself while slowly gathering her scattered belongings.
Veronica felt the panic in her rising as she fought inwardly with herself on what to do next. Apologize, probably, but then what? It felt natural to immediately introduce herself and that was the last thing she wanted. Fuck shit fuck shit fuck...maybe she'll just scream at me and leave once the elevator stops...
"Hey, are you okay?"
What the fuck!? Shitfuckshitfuckshitfuck!
A hand nudged her shoulder and Veronica shrieked more than said, "I'm fine!"
The voice above her chuckled -- chuckled or scoffed? -- "So are you just going to keep laying on the gross floor or do you want a hand up?"
Before she could think on it, Veronica took a breath and a leap of faith and reached up to take the offered hand, allowing herself to be hoisted out of the floor. Steeling herself for the world's most awkward reunion, Veronica shrank into her coat and tousled hair and started to open her mouth to sputter out anything but was stopped as Heather immediately turned to collect her fallen belongings. She picked up her leather side bag and umbrella before turning, Veronica quickly avoiding her gaze by dropping back down to her knees and picking up the scattered papers.
"I-I'm so sorry." She rushed out, "I'm a klutz a-and it's slippery in here and I never m-meant to h-hit you--"
"It happens."
What the fuck times two?
Heather kneeled down to help her and said casually, "This rain is a pain in the ass. I hope it's done by morning."
Veronica looked at her directly now, far too stunned to think about the consequences. "You're not mad?"
"No?" Heather met her gaze, a confused but cordial smile on her face, "Why would I be? It's not like you meant to do that."
They stared at each other in strained silence, both seeming to be searching the other's face for something: Veronica for false kindness and a hidden wrath and Heather for... recognition?
The elevator door opened with a loud ding and Heather broke their shared stare, quickly taking the last of her papers from Veronica and rising to stand again. She left the elevator without another word, turning out of view and leaving Veronica still crouched on the floor. Hurrying to get up and sure she was completely insane, Veronica nearly tripped over her own feet trying to chase Heather when she was actually tripped by something thin wrapped around her ankles. Her head smacked against the floor for the second time and she groaned to herself as she sat up to find what tripped her.
A Walkman, of all the things, had tangled around her feet without seeming to break the device or the headphones. Yanking it free and wadding up its cord, Veronica lurched to her feet again and exited the elevator in time to catch a glimpse of Heather's black skirt turn the corner down another hall. "Hey..." Veronica whispered uselessly, walking forward almost begrudgingly, "you forgot..."
Sighing and upping her pace, Veronica resigned herself to whatever came next and half-walked half-jogged around the corner. Just as she did, Heather opened the door to an apartment and promptly shut it behind her.
The apartment right beside Veronica's.
Looking between her own door to Heather's door to Heather's Walkman, Veronica shook her head with a humorless laugh and said, "Fuck me gently with a chainsaw."